


and lay down arms

by discardable



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discardable/pseuds/discardable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alistair - royal bastard, former Grey Warden and hopeless drunk - joins the Inquisition's forces, Cullen finds himself intrigued. He also finds himself with a new friend and lieutenant, but things quickly become more complicated than he's bargained for.</p><p>Or: the man who failed Ferelden, the man who failed Kirkwall, and learning to move forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the meme (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=52086389) asking for developing Cullen/Alistair. Hopefully I'll be updating daily on the meme, and bundling updates for crossposts here every second day.
> 
> Rating is tentative and may go up later, but things should definitely stay a comfortable M at most.

The sound of soldiers training in the courtyard filters through the doorway of Cullen’s office, raised voices and steel on steel, and for the thousandth time he catches himself drifting. Begrudgingly he returns his attention to the latest report from Leliana, trying desperately to stifle rebellious thoughts of going out to join them. Their ranks have swelled considerably since their arrival at Skyhold, which is most definitely a good thing; unfortunately, it’s difficult to be unequivocally pleased about this when its primary effect has been to shackle him to his desk. He trains when he can, largely because keeping fit seems to stave off the worst of the withdrawal, but having to stay inside chafes all the same. On a rational level, he knows this role allows him to do the most good for the Inquisition – the successful campaigns he’s led so far attest to his skill – but he was made for the front lines, and sitting around like this ill suits him.

There’s a light tap on his doorframe, and he schools his features into something approaching neutrality before looking up. Surprisingly, it’s not one of his scouts; instead it’s the templar girl with a familiar face and an elusive name.

“Lysette, was it?” he hazards, and tries not to show his relief when she nods. “What’s going on?”

“It’s one of the new recruits, Commander,” she says tentatively. “He’s – well, you should probably see for yourself, ser.”

He frowns. It doesn’t sound like there’s been any sort of commotion, which probably means that something hasn’t gone seriously wrong (yet, anyway). But even if he wasn’t craving a break, it’s his job to ensure that things are under control. Rising, he works the knots from his shoulders and adjusts his cloak.

“Lead on,” he says, and follows her out.

The new recruits would usually be partnered off with each other, practicing the most basic of sword drills, but they’ve long since broken formation. Instead they’ve clustered around two of their number, and an impressed silence blankets the whole group. Lysette hangs back but Cullen makes his way forward, trying and failing to be surreptitious. If he makes his presence too obvious, the moment will collapse, and he’d like to observe for as long as possible first.

A man and a woman stand in the middle of the circle, weapons raised. He vaguely recognises the latter, but he’s more interested in the newcomer: no older than thirty or so, he has the build of a seasoned fighter gone slightly soft. His dirty blond hair is plastered down with sweat, but his eyes are bright and focused.

“…and make sure to keep your left arm up,” the man instructs, demonstrating as he does so. His accent is thickly Fereldan, with the same distinctive Redcliffe burr as Cullen, and that only sharpens his curiosity. “There’s not much point in a shield if you’re going to leave yourself wide open anyway.” 

“Like this?” the woman asks, moving to copy him – but then her eyes catch on the Commander, and she stops. Her teacher follows her gaze, and suddenly there are twenty recruits looking at him.

“Your stance,” he says, and the man tenses. “You’ve had templar training, haven’t you?”

“And here I was hoping to slip your notice.” The stranger heaves a long-suffering sigh. “But _nooo_ , I never could help drawing attention to myself. Great work, Alistair.”

“You’re not exactly being surreptitious,” Cullen points out. “But why not say as much? We could find a far better use for you than as an ordinary soldier.”

“Personally, I quite like being unexceptional,” he says innocently. “I’ll go where I’m needed, and it looks like that’s right here.”

It’s a clear deflection, and he won’t stand for it; this man could be an asset to the Inquisition, but it’s impossible to get the measure of him. Making a snap decision, he turns to the female recruit. “Your weapons, please.”

She startles, but hands them over. Alistair watches with narrowed eyes. “What’s this about?” he asks suspiciously.

He takes a stance in answer, practice blade outstretched. “Exactly what it looks like. I want to see how good you are.”

There’s a long moment where Cullen thinks the man might actually bolt, but then he exhales in a rush. “I don’t suppose I have a choice,” he says at last.

He grins sharply. “Not at all.”

Alistair brings his shield up, a perfect double of the Commander’s own position; he begins to circle left and his counterpart mimics him, maintaining their distance. It erases the last of his doubts about the man being a templar; their footwork is identical, and for a long moment they prowl around each other like mirror images.

Experience has taught him to be patient in battle, which suits his heavily defensive style just fine, but he’s not so sure about the other man. In any other circumstance he’d try and stall his opponent, wait for them to slip up and make the first mistake. But he wants to figure Alistair out more than he wants to win, so he decides to take the smallest of risks.

He feints right and his foe goes for the bait, moving to block. But at the last moment Cullen steps left instead, throwing his weight behind his shield arm and pressing forward. The strike is brutal, felling Alistair easily; he crumples gracelessly to the ground, sprawled out almost luxuriantly. The fight lasted barely a minute, and neither of them is even puffed.

“At the Circle in Ferelden,” he says, standing over his downed opponent, “Ser Edric would’ve had your head for leaving yourself open like that.”

“True enough.” Alistair picks himself up, dusting off his training clothes. “In my defence, I wasn’t very good at being a templar.”

“Too much backtalk?”

“Too many feelings.”

He files that away to mull over later, and then backpedals to the pleasantries he shouldn’t have skipped. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, soldier. I’m Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces.”

Alistair smirks, and it brings his whole face to life even though he looks insufferably smug. “Oh, I’m aware. You’re a long way from Kinloch, Chantry boy.”

It clicks in his head, then – the name, the fighting style, the boy who had a million witty lines but not a single friend – and his jaw drops. “You’re _that_ Alistair? The one who –”

“Not here,” he cuts in sharply, eyes darting to indicate their audience. “Please.”

“Walk with me, then,” Cullen says, setting his weapons aside, and makes for the nearest set of stairs. There’s a flurry of whispering behind him as the recruits try to make sense of what just happened, but a quick glance over his shoulder puts an end to that. Still, his soldiers gossip like fishwives, and he’s certain that rumours of the newcomer will be flying through the barracks by the end of the day. With any luck, though, they won’t be able to put the pieces together; if the man following him really is the disgraced prince of Ferelden, Maker knows the last thing he needs is for the secret to get out.

They ascend to the battlements in silence, his companion trotting slightly behind him. Once inside his office, he closes the door and takes his usual place behind his desk. Alistair, too, remains standing, although he’s restless and uneasy on his feet.

“You were holding back,” Cullen opens bluntly, leaning forward and propping himself on his hands. He doesn’t quite know what game he’s playing, although he has a fairly good idea of where this is going. At any rate, it’s nothing a little questioning won’t solve.

“Of course I was.” He’s honest, at least, and that’s refreshing enough to score him a few points. “After all, what would those soldiers have said if I’d toppled their Commander? You’d have gotten dirt in those magnificent feathers.”

“Pauldrons aside, I can’t help but feel you had an ulterior motive,” he says drily. “That feint was one of Ser Edric’s favourite moves, and I doubt you’ve forgotten it so easily. Either you’ve gotten sloppy, or you had to pretend as much, but don’t claim to have lost out of concern for my reputation. Or, for that matter, my laundry. Perhaps you’d hoped I would leave you alone if you threw the match?”

“I don’t like drawing attention to myself,” Alistair says stubbornly, although he looks a little sheepish. “Believe me, I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

“Yet here you are,” he says, “at Skyhold. Joining the Inquisition hardly counts as throwing yourself to the ash heap of history.”

“I want to do some good,” he admits, “so I figured I may as well start here. It’s been a long time since I got that chance.”

“I thought you would’ve been with the Grey Wardens,” Cullen says. He remembers the day they arrived at the Circle Tower, although not well; it was a decade ago, and he’d barely paid any attention to the single unpopular recruit who left with them. “I know the Blight’s long over, but surely whatever they’re doing is more interesting than joining our rank and file.”

Alistair’s face grows stormy. “Let’s not talk about that. Suffice to say I’m with the Inquisition now, and I plan to stay here for the foreseeable future.”

 _Bad topic_ , he notes to himself. “Alright,” he says aloud, “one more thing, then I’ll let you go. I’m promoting you, effective immediately, and from tomorrow you’ll be running drills instead of participating in them. Are we clear?”

“Maker, no,” the other man says, looking frankly terrified. “I don’t do well in positions of responsibility. I mean, do I seem the responsible type to you?”

“Alistair,” he says exasperatedly, and the name abruptly sobers his guest. “I understand that you want to blend in, but pairing you with men who’ve never held a blade before does nobody any favours. Sometimes you need to put yourself aside and step up, I’m afraid.”

There’s a hard, alien look in his eyes, but it fades as quickly as it appears. He’s left to wonder if he imagined it, and isn’t sure which answer he prefers. “Alright,” he says shortly, “if I must. I imagine there’s no swaying you.”

“Good man,” he says. “Go see Knight-Captain Rylen, then, and tell him I sent you. Dismissed.”

He salutes almost mockingly, then turns on his heels and leaves. The Commander listens to his footfalls as he goes; then, once he’s sure he’s alone, he lets himself sag forward and presses his head to his hands.

“Maker’s breath,” he allows himself. A royal bastard trying to lay low should be a minor annoyance next to the threat of Corypheus, but Alistair seems like the type who attracts trouble without even meaning to. After all, he managed to go from Grey Warden to contender for the throne to disgraced exile in the space of a few short months, and Ferelden during the Blight feels like a walk in the park compared to the tumultuousness of the Breach. Anything could happen, particularly with someone like that around.

Maybe it’s the raw hope in him which the sarcasm can’t quite cover, or maybe it’s simply the air of loneliness that clings to him like fog, but Cullen doesn’t think he’ll mind quite as much as he should.


	2. Chapter 2

Cullen exits the war room, thoughts chasing each other mercilessly around his head. There’s not much he and Leliana and Josephine can do with the Inquisitor away in Crestwood, and they only convened in the first place to discuss the reports from Caer Bronach. Details are sparse due to the possibility of interference, but apparently the Inquisitor, Hawke and their Grey Warden contact are all on their way back to Skyhold. Despite having no real feelings either way on the Wardens, their disappearance still has him on edge, so even the hint of a lead they have is encouraging.

He turns into the great hall, mind buzzing. But then somebody catches him by the elbow, and he startles and stops. He glances to the side; then, adjusting to his ambusher, he glances down.

“Varric,” he says, not quite managing to hide his surprise. “Was there something you needed?”

“Only the pleasure of your company, Curly,” the dwarf answers. “Think you could spare a few hours this evening for a friendly game of cards?”

He never had much to do with Varric back in Kirkwall, largely because he tended to avoid the Hanged Man by any means possible, and this overture of friendship reads as suspicious even after months of working together.

“Why?” he asks, speaking aloud before he can stop himself.

He’s met with an indulgent chuckle. “You mean I need a reason? It’ll be fun, that’s why. Besides, our lovely spymaster asked me to make sure you took a break, and who am I to defy her?” 

It’s funny, because that’s the single most ludicrous instance of the pot calling the kettle black he’s ever encountered. Leliana’s the only person in the entire Inquisition who works harder than he does, barring maybe Josephine, and at least _he_ doesn’t spend all his time holed up in a dark tower with only birds for company. Still, she has a maddening tendency to be both right and about ten steps ahead of him, and he's since learned to acknowledge it. He reaches up and massages his temples; there’s a headache building low and heavy under his fingers, the desperate need for lyrium rattling his skull, and part of him aches for the simplicity of a night off. 

“Give me a moment,” he says, resigned. “I have some paperwork to attend to first, and it can’t wait.”

“Sure thing,” Varric says pleasantly. “But if you take longer than an hour, I’ll have to deploy reinforcements.”

That’s definitely code for _I’ll send in Dorian_ , and he barely suppresses a wince. It’s not that he doesn’t like the mage – they’ve struck up a friendship based on a mutual love of chess and military history, much to the surprise of the entire Inquisition – but he has no chance of holding out against his iron-fist-velvet-glove style of persuasion. And if Cullen Rutherford is going to be strongarmed into a round or three of Wicked Grace, he damn well wants to do it under his own steam.

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and the dwarf almost looks pleased.

*

He arrives at the Herald’s Rest forty-five minutes later, where it’s late enough for celebrations to be in full swing. Truth be told, it’s too loud and disorderly to ever be his favourite place, but he supposes it’s alright to visit once in a while.

Varric catches his eye almost as soon as he enters, motioning from his table at the back. Cullen nods and begins to weave his way through the mass of people; is it busier than usual tonight, or is that just his imagination? But a familiar person at the bar, right in the middle of the commotion, catches his attention, and he stops to join the mingling crowd.

Alistair sways unsteadily in place, halfway through a mug of ale and well on his way to being totally shitfaced. His voice lilts above the background noise, consonants loose and strident. He’s accompanied by the Iron Bull, of all people, nursing his own mug with steady hands and uncharacteristic slowness.

“I’m telling you, I should’ve been king,” he announces, with the kind of confidence possessed only by the very drunk. He’s speaking loudly enough to attract attention, and it’s even worse because he’s gathered a large and interested audience. “But the sodding Hero of sodding Ferelden stabbed me in the back, didn’t he? Just because Anora offered him a chance at power!”

Badmouthing Ferelden’s royal couple in a tavern full of his countrymen seems like it would make Alistair very unpopular very quickly, even without admitting to his birthright. Cullen never got to know the other man – they barely interacted at the Circle, and truth be told nobody really cared when the Wardens took him – but something in him twists unpleasantly at the sight all the same. Behind the bar, Cabot seems spectacularly uninclined to intervene; after all, the dwarf probably hasn’t had such a good customer since the Chargers’ last drinking contest. It’s almost too pathetic to bear, not least because he seems to be no stranger to his liquor.

Bull guffaws good-naturedly, although there’s no doubt he’s memorising every word. As friendly as he is, he’s still Ben-Hassrath and this is valuable information. “Really?”

“They deserve each other, if you ask me,” Alistair continues, even though nobody actually voiced the question. “And people say _I’m_ a traitor!”

Now seems like a good time for the Commander of the Inquisition to step in, so he pushes his way to the man’s side. “Is something wrong?” he asks, loudly enough to convince a few of the onlookers they have better things to do.

“Collin!” he cries. “ _Cullen._ Good to see you.” 

If only he could say the same. “Come on,” he mutters, winding Alistair’s arm around his shoulders and hoisting him up, “let’s get you out of here before anyone starts feeling patriotic.”

Out of nowhere he feels someone looking at him, and he reflexively glances up to the rafters. On the topmost floor, Leliana’s eyes glint like coins beneath her hood before she fades out of sight. He’s not sure why she’s interested, or why she would have a horse in this race at all, but maybe she’s on his side.

“Stop it,” Alistair whines, interrupting his musings. “You sound like Teagan, always trying to make me stop _wallowing_. Maybe I _like_ wallowing, ever think of that?”

There’s only one Teagan he knows of, and his estimation of the Arl of Redcliffe rises a good deal. At least there’s one person in all of Ferelden who seems to care what happens to the poor bastard.

Then Varric saunters over, affecting a casual slouch. “What’s this I hear about the King of Ferelden?” he asks, not quite managing to sound innocuous. He’s got the tenacity of a mabari when it comes to seeking out stories, and Alistair reeks of them. Well, he corrects mentally, he also reeks of cheap ale, but that’s probably insignificant to somebody who lived at the Hanged Man. 

“It’s nothing,” Cullen says firmly, elbowing Alistair when he tries to protest. “Although it seems I won’t be able to join you for Wicked Grace tonight, unfortunately.”

He appraises them for a long moment; then, seemingly giving up, he turns to Bull.

“Well, Tiny, up for taking his place? I still haven’t forgiven you for cleaning me out last time, you know, and I’m pretty sure I’ve nailed down your tells.”

“Have you, now?” The qunari regards them out of the corner of his eye, then throws his head back with a laugh. “Bring it, dwarf. I’ll send you back to Bianca with your tail between your legs.”

They drift back to the table together, leaving Cullen alone with an inebriated prince and an audience. “Move along,” he says sharply, and levels his best authoritative glare at the patrons until they shuffle out of his way.

Somehow he manages to manoeuvre them out of the tavern and into the snow, ignoring everyone’s curious glances. They’re halfway to the barracks before he realises that sending Alistair there in his condition would be a terrible plan; the prince has already run his mouth a dangerous amount, and surrounding him with nosy soldiers is the opposite of damage control.

There’s nothing for it, sadly, and he steels himself against the decision. They execute a slow about-turn, the movement a parody of some Orlesian waltz, and he begins to struggle up the stairs to the battlements. He’s strong, but he has to deal with the other man’s dead weight on top of the feebleness brought on by his headache, so they progress at a snail’s pace.

“Where are we going?” his passenger asks, awake enough to notice the drastic change of direction.

“Change of plans,” he grunts. “Back to mine.”

“Oh, _Commander_ ,” Alistair flutes, and then his head crashes sharply into the point of his shoulder. That seems to pacify him, which is a mercy, but perhaps the quiet isn’t worth the cost in this situation.

“You don’t seem so concerned about my pauldrons now that you’re drooling on them,” Cullen points out, sounding snippier than he’d like.

“But they’re _soft_.” He nuzzles shamelessly into the feathers, messing them up further. “And I can’t help the drooling, I’m afraid. I’m destitute.”

“One has nothing to do with the other,” he mutters, and decides to revise his priorities. There’s no way he’ll be able to get any sense out of his companion, and it’s foolish to even try.

They barge unsteadily into his office, and not a moment too soon. Cullen’s strength is flagging, and he desperately searches for the bed so he can put down his charge. Then it hits him.

“ _Maker_ ,” he groans, because really, how could he have forgotten about the ladder? He doesn’t trust Alistair to scale it, and he has better manners than to allow him to sleep on the floor. Making a snap decision, he shepherds his charge under cover and deposits him bodily there.

“Stay here,” he says, and then he’s up the ladder in a flash. He wrestles with his mattress, managing to prise it off his bedframe with shaky hands and altogether too much effort, and then he pushes it over the edge of the loft. It barely misses his guest, who’s poked his head out to see what all the ruckus is, and he’s infinitely grateful for it. There would be far too many unpleasant questions asked if he was found to have brained a new recruit with an airborne bed.

“There,” he says, slightly puffed. “Get some rest, Alistair.”

He sits on the edge of the mattress, but he’s fidgeting, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I really am the prince of Ferelden,” he says suddenly, focusing on Cullen with a strange clarity. There’s a vulnerability to him now that’s absent when he’s sober, and it’s so jarringly genuine that he aches a little to see it. “You believe me, right?”

“I do.”

“Thanks,” he says, “you’re not so bad,” then promptly keels over and begins to snore.

Cullen descends as quietly as he can, trying his hardest to muffle his steps. Then he settles behind his desk, allowing himself a sigh and very definitely not looking at the man camped in his bed.

So much for taking a break.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will unfortunately be slowing down a little from hereon out, but I should still be reposting here once or twice a week.

On nights like this, when the withdrawal rises in a fury and grips his skull like a vice, Cullen doesn’t sleep. Better to try and work through the pain than to wake from a nightmare feeling unrested, even if it means the quartermaster gets suspicious about the amount of coffee he drinks. Staying up does, however, have two major advantages: it lets him set aside time to catch up on his endless backlog of paperwork, and he’ll be so drained tomorrow that sleep will come easily.

Daylight creeps up on him slowly, and he’s nearing the bottom of his in-tray before he realises his candle’s long since burned out. Satisfied with his progress, he sets the last report aside and knuckles at his eyelids with clumsy hands. Odds are he’ll be a mess for the next couple of hours, but his second wind should kick in not long after; it’s always been fairly reliable, and has only gotten more so with his newly irregular sleeping pattern.

“You know,” Alistair says from his spot on the mattress, “I’ve never woken up in a man’s bed before.”

Cullen startles; he hadn’t known his guest was awake, but he’s speaking clearly enough that he must’ve been up for a while.

“I’m not sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this,” he continues, far too cheerfully. “I mean, I’ve only known you a day, and that’s just desperate. Not my usual style, I promise.”

Only then does he glance up at the speechless Cullen, who’s slowly but steadily going red.

“Sorry, Commander,” he says, “have I offended your sensibilities?”

“It’s not that,” he manages to choke out. “I… I prefer the company of women, is all.”

“Congratulations,” says Alistair, “me too. Now we’ve established that, mind if I run off? I have an important and responsible job to be doing, as you well know.”

He levers himself up, legs far too steady considering the amount of alcohol he put away last night. It speaks to a tolerance built up over years of drinking, and Cullen is so busy trying to unpack it all that he nearly lets his subordinate slip away.

“Wait!” he calls, and the man stops by the doorway. “Wait. You owe me something more.”

“Oh? I do hate to love you and leave you, ser,” he says, “but I really need to get to the barracks.”

“One,” Cullen says evenly, “will you _please_ stop with the… the indecent jokes? Two, it’s just a small favour. And three, I’m your commanding officer, so I hope you appreciate my asking nicely.”

“All right,” he grouses, “I guess I’m in your debt anyway. What would you have of me, Your Commanderness?”

“Fetch Dorian for me, please. I’m going to need his help.”

“Ah yes, Dorian. Because I definitely know who that is.”

“Mage,” he says. “Tevinter accent, moustache, should be at the library in the tower.”

“Ser.” Alistair straightens, and marches off on his heel without so much as a salute or a goodbye. For a man who used to be a Grey Warden and claims to despise positions of responsibility, he certainly seems unused to following orders. That, or he simply can’t help the constant insubordination; at least it’s the harmless kind, born of his idiosyncrasies rather than genuine pigheadedness.

It’s not long before Dorian arrives, as poised as ever despite the hour. “You look terrible,” he informs Cullen, tone warm despite the admonishment. “I’d call a healer, but I’m not sure they can mend poor life choices.”

“You’re a pillar of support.”

His mouth quirks. “I try. Now, your man said you wanted something?”

He gestures at the mattress on his floor, sheets rumpled. “I had an unexpected guest last night, and they weren’t in any shape to make it up the ladder. So…”

Maker, it sounds a great deal worse than it is when he puts it like that. And Dorian isn’t the type to let it slide either, so he goes directly for the throat.

“Eventful night, Commander? I’m a little surprised you had to resort to a drunken tumble, though, considering so many others around Skyhold would jump at the chance to bed you.”

“The mattress,” he says wearily, dodging the uncomfortable question of his admirers. “Can you get it back up to the loft for me?”

“Ha! Next time, ask me to do something difficult.”

Magic swirls around him, making the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stand on end. Despite cutting off his lyrium use months ago, he’s retained his incredible sensitivity to mana, and he wonders if he’ll ever get rid of it. Granted, it was an incredibly useful skill to have as a templar, chasing down apostates; it’s significantly less so now that he spends so much time with magic-users who’re on the same side as him.

Mattress successfully levitated, Dorian hops up onto the edge of his desk and regards him imperiously. There’s clearly something on his mind, and it’s not long before he voices it. “The man you sent for me,” he begins, “was at the Herald’s Rest last night, thoroughly sloshed and equally convinced of his claim to the Fereldan throne. You _do_ keep interesting company, Cullen.”

“That’s rather why I brought him here,” he explains, forced onto the defensive. “I couldn’t just send him back to the barracks in that condition. I mean, some of the things he was saying could easily have gotten him arrested for treason.”

“If I’d known pretending to be a prince would’ve gotten me into your bed,” he drawls, “I’d have tried it months ago.”

“ _Dorian_ ,” he says, rubbing his forehead in exhaustion, “I’m serious. The facts he was spouting match up, at least to the best of my knowledge.”

“Hm,” the mage says, kicking his legs against the desk. “I’m not particularly familiar with the specifics of the Fereldan royal line, so… you’re sure?”

“Reasonably. I’ve known a couple of Alistairs in my time, but only one of them was a templar turned Grey Warden during the Fifth Blight. And while I can’t vouch for him being Maric’s bastard, he’s certainly the same Alistair who the Arl of Redcliffe was trying to crown as king.”

There’s a silence as he digests this, eyes thoughtful. “What’s he doing here, then? Surely a prince has somewhere better to be than the Inquisition, as important as we are these days.”

“That’s the thousand-sovereign question, isn’t it?” Cullen heaves a sigh. “I know he was disgraced and exiled after Queen Anora and her Prince-Consort took the throne, but… that was a decade ago. Why has he resurfaced here, and why now?”

“Void if I know,” Dorian says brightly, and then his voice gentles. “Stop worrying about it, at least. You’ll get wrinkly from all that thinking, and then Josephine will have my head.”

“Okay,” he says, “alright. Thanks for the help.”

“Any time, Commander.” He stands. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s an interesting lead about Corypheus I’d quite like to pursue. Unless there was something else?”

“Please don’t let Alistair’s identity get out,” he says, and then thinks better of it. The mage is guilty of many things, but he’s not the type to spill secrets. “And don’t go harassing him or anything either, alright?”

“No promises,” his friend says, smirking wickedly, and sweeps away.

*

“Oi,” the elf girl says, and then repeats herself more forcefully. “Oi, you.”

Alistair looks up from his pint reluctantly, and only because she seems like the type who’ll escalate things if ignored. His first day training recruits has been a long one, and being pestered is the absolute last thing he needs. Just his luck, really, although by this point he’s almost learned to expect it.

“Yes, me,” he says flatly. “Was there something you needed, or did you just come to gawk?”

“I hear you’re a king’s son,” she says. “What’re you doing so far from Denerim, princey?”

“Keep your voice down,” he mutters, shushing her, “and also it’s not your business. I don’t want to talk about it, thanks.”

She grins, not even bothering to mask her amusement. “I’m not saying anything you didn’t say twice as loud last night.”

“Now, Sera, stop bothering the poor man.” And suddenly the Commander’s Vint friend is looming over his table, arms crossed and smirk tugging at his lips. “Can’t you see he wants to get drunk in peace?”

Sera snorts and pushes herself up, flouncing away without comment. The man drops himself into the seat she vacated seat, legs tangling together gracefully.

“Thanks,” he says. 

“Think nothing of it,” the mage responds, waving a hand. Then he cocks his head thoughtfully, scrutinising him with far too intelligent eyes. “You know, I don’t believe we’ve formally met. Dorian Pavus.”

“Alistair,” he says, not offering a surname. Thankfully, Dorian seems to let this pass, although it’s not long before his true motive becomes apparent.

“Cullen’s new favourite,” he says, flashing his teeth. “Tell me, how did you catch the attention of our esteemed Commander?”

He drains his glass, then flags down a waitress. He’s been here two days and is already sick of how much people enjoy interrogating him. If he’s going to have to put up with this, he’s damn well not going to do it sober.

“Another, please,” he tells the server, passing over his coins.

“And a whiskey,” Dorian butts in, tipping her a wink as he pays. But then she bustles off, and that puts him at the man’s mercy again. “Well, Ser Alistair?”

“I met the man yesterday, so it’s a stretch to call me his anything. Sure, he gave me a minor promotion, but that was really just common sense.” Then he changes tack, charging gleefully onto the offensive. “Actually, I could ask you the same question. What’s a former templar doing hanging around with a magister?”

“Oh, I won him over with my charm and good looks.” There’s a tightness to his expression as he speaks, an intensity strangely at home on his face. “Also, not every mage from the Imperium is a magister. That’s like saying every Fereldan owns ten dogs and sleeps on dirt.”

“My old commander had a mabari,” he says wistfully. “Pity its master was a stain on the face of Thedas, though. I _liked_ that dog.”

“You realise, of course, that the jokes make themselves.”

The waitress deposits two glasses on their table, one large and one small, and neither man wastes any time with conversation. There’s a silence as they drink, and while it’s tentative and uncomfortable, it’s not entirely unfriendly. 

“This stuff is awful,” Dorian says, holding his glass up to the light and swirling it experimentally. “The Inquisition should be ashamed.” 

“Yep,” he agrees. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“If your sole objective is to get drunk, maybe. And while that’s a noble goal, I’m of the opinion that alcohol should be enjoyed.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “You know, I have some Imperium whiskey back in my quarters. What say you?”

“Depends. You’re not trying to seduce me, are you?” The question comes out before he can catch it, and he immediately feels stupid for it.

To Dorian’s credit, he isn’t thrown at all. “Hardly.”

He thinks. On one hand, they barely know each other, and he’d be a fool to trust someone from Tevinter so easily. On the other, though, anything’s better than the piss he’s drinking, and it’ll be further improved by company. That, and the Commander likes him, which seems as decent a yardstick as any.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

His companion smiles, and there are no sharp edges in it this time. “ _Capital_.”

*

Dorian’s head hits the chessboard with a thunk, barely missing his empty tumbler. Alistair waits for a long moment, and then reaches out to prod him with a finger. There’s no response, so he takes the opportunity to help himself to another glass of Tevinter whiskey. It is, admittedly, excellent.

“Good game,” he says, and pats his unconscious opponent on the cheek. He’s not terribly fussed about the match coming to an early end, but then again, he was losing.

He downs his drink in one, savouring the burn, and pushes himself to his feet. Then he staggers out into the library, ignoring the glares he garners from the few patrons that remain at this time of night. There are stairs leading both up and down from the circular room, and a rogue thought steals into his head even as he looks at them: _it’s about time you visited Leliana_. (It happens to sound a lot like the voice which tells him another pint would be a good idea, but that’s simple coincidence.) She is, after all, just a short flight away, and it’s true he’s been putting it off. They haven’t seen each other in a decade, and she’s certainly never bothered to write to him but, he decides, this will no longer stand.

Barrelling up the steps with a sudden turn of speed, he bursts into the darkness of the rookery. Something must be going right for him because Leliana’s straight ahead, talking to an elf dressed in a mage’s robes. But the women stop mid-sentence, expressions unreadable, when he enters on unsteady legs. 

“Alistair,” Leliana says, surprise colouring her voice. “I was wondering if you were going to come speak to me.”

“Of course!” he says, propping himself up against the wall. “We’re friends.” 

“It’s good to see you well,” she says, avoiding his point. “Although I didn’t expect to meet you again at Skyhold, of all places.”

He shoots a glance at the elf, who’s dead silent. She watches with a studied neutrality, but doesn’t take her eyes from him regardless, and he shifts awkwardly under her gaze.

“Had nowhere else,” he says. “Couldn’t go back to the Wardens, couldn’t bear to hang around in Ferelden. And your Commander thinks I’m good at what I do.” Which isn’t entirely a lie, anyway.

“I see,” she says. “What brought you here tonight, then?”

“You were there when Cousland screwed me over,” he says as seriously as he can. “Thought you’d simper. Sympathise.”

“Leliana,” the elf cuts in, eyes still not leaving him, “perhaps we should talk another time?”

The spymaster doesn’t grimace, but it’s a close thing. “That might be best. My apologies, Grand Enchanter.”

She inclines her head slightly and sweeps away, posture tense and formal. Alistair watches her leave with an unease prickling just under his skin, one he can’t even begin to place.

“Why are so many elves being weird at me tonight?” he mutters. “It’s uncalled for, is what it is.” 

“Alistair,” Leliana says reproachfully, “you’re drunk. Go to bed.”

After a decade, he should have so much to say to her; he really does want to think they were friends, that she felt something when Cousland backstabbed him in favour of Loghain and Anora, that she didn’t want him to go. And yet the best he can manage is “Am not,” the words clumsy on his tongue.

“Come speak to me when you’re sober,” she says, pressing her fingers to her temples. “I’m busy, and I can’t look after you right now.”

 _I won’t have the courage to_ , he thinks, not realising he’s spoken aloud until Leliana says “Pardon?”

“Nothing,” he says.

She looks patently unconvinced. “Another time,” she says, “yes?”

“Yeah,” he says, “okay.”

He turns away stiffly, shame coiling low and hot in his stomach. When he finally shuffles down the stairs, he is a man defeated.


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen wakes sluggishly, back and shoulders stiff from a night of sleeping badly. His mind is fuzzy, and sensation filters in slowly: he’s seated at his desk, where he fell asleep fully dressed. And somebody’s knocking rather insistently at his door, which is presumably what woke him.

There’s a mug of something on his desk, and a piece of parchment folded next to it. He takes the note, opening it with shaking fingers.

_Apology coffee?  
\- A._

He sighs and glances over at his mattress, which has once again migrated from loft to floor. It’s a nice gesture, and certainly more than he’d expected from his guest, but he suspects caffeine can only do so much at this point. But really, what else could he have done when Alistair showed up drunk again? It’s a worryingly short-term solution, which means something has to give, and he mentally clears a space in his schedule later for sitting the other man down and talking about it.

The knocking comes again, somehow even more emphatic. “Bed brigade!” a voice sing-songs from the other side.

He massages his temples, willing himself into business mode, and calls “Come in, Dorian.”

The mage enters with a spring in his step, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “Good morning, Commander. Had another busy night, I hear?”

Reflexively, Cullen jumps onto the offensive. “Yes, and it’s your fault,” he accuses. “Getting drunk with Alistair and then abandoning him.”

“Ah, and here I was just making small talk. My mistake.” He hops up and assumes his usual spot on the desk, wholly unfazed by the finger-pointing. “And really? All I did was provide the man with camaraderie and something a little nicer than the piss that Cabot calls ale.”

The only response he can manage is a grunt. He has no chance against his friend in an argument on a good day, and this is certainly not shaping up to be one of those.

“Cheer up,” says Dorian shamelessly. “Incidentally, word is the Inquisitor’s due back sometime this morning. I’d suggest trying to clean up before then.”

The magic he uses to lift the mattress rattles Cullen’s skull and prickles under his skin, the discomfort exacerbated by his exhaustion. He groans again, burying his face in the nearest pile of paperwork.

“You’re welcome,” his friend says. “Incidentally, Commander, if you’re going to let someone stay in your quarters, may I suggest actually getting into bed with them? Just a helpful tip.”

“It’s still nothing like that,” he mutters, lifting his face just enough to glare at his visitor. He’s aware that he looks like a petulant child, but it’s at the back of his mind right now. “Besides, I know how it works.”

“I’m not sure you do,” says Dorian, sounding almost sincere, but he’s back to his usual glib self a second later. “I’ll leave you alone, then. You look like a mabari’s breakfast, to use that lovely Fereldan idiom, and unfortunately I don’t think my presence is doing you any favours.”

“How’d you know?” he grumps as good-naturedly as he can.

“Oh, you know, _intuition_ ,” Dorian says with an exaggerated wink, and swans out.

*

Cullen exits his office a little over half an hour later, bathed and shaved and feeling fractionally more alive. In the courtyard below, Rylen is directing a group of soldiers into a shield wall; it’s part of the formation training he’s recently introduced, and something swells within him at the sight of Inquisition forces operating like a well-oiled machine. As he watches, a figure breaks off and trots over to the Knight-Captain, and they confer energetically. He’s a little surprised to recognise Alistair, but it’s good to see him taking this seriously at least.

Suddenly, a distant bugle sounds three long notes: the signal for the Inquisitor’s arrival. A ripple seems to pass through the soldiers, and they immediately begin to form up into ranks. Cullen descends from the battlements, heading for his second-in-command in hopes of a quick briefing.

“Knight-Captain,” he says. “How are things progressing?”

“I have precisely no head for strategy,” Alistair cuts in, sounding far too pleased for a man admitting to his shortcomings. “So Rylen’s not having much luck with that, but at least the shield wall is coming along nicely.”

“It’s an acquired skill,” Rylen fires back, unflappable as ever. “It’ll come in time. You think the Commander started off as a tactical genius? When I met him, he was struggling to coordinate even a small group of templars, and look at him now.”

He opens his mouth to argue, and then there’s another bugle blast and his argument is lost. The Inquisitor rides in, flanked by Hawke and a man in the blue and grey of the Wardens. Cassandra, Solas and Cole follow a little further behind, all looking thoroughly travel-weary. 

“Maker,” Alistair mutters feelingly, ducking behind his commander. “Hide me, Cullen.”

His name sounds unusual on the other man’s lips, but he wills himself to focus on the conversation at hand instead. “Why?” he murmurs, fully aware of how ridiculous it is that he’s being drawn into this.

“Because that’s _Loghain_ ,” he hisses. “The traitor who abandoned King Cailan at Ostagar at the beginning of the Blight? He’s the reason I left the Grey Wardens, you know.”

He didn’t, actually, but it doesn’t seem like a good time to pursue that line of questioning. “Surely you should face him down,” he suggests. “Show him you’re not afraid.”

Cassandra’s eyes catch on him, taking in his obvious exhaustion, and her eyes narrow. He meets her gaze, but it’s a near thing, and the irony of his own words becomes deeply apparent. So he steps forward, ignoring Alistair’s protests as he’s exposed, and speaks.

“Welcome back. I trust everything went well?”

“Well enough,” the Inquisitor says, dismounting. “We have a lot to discuss, so I’m calling a meeting at the war table in an hour.”

That’s the Herald of Andraste for you: all business. “Understood,” he says, and stands aside. “I won’t keep you in the meantime, then.”

“Dismissed,” says the Inquisitor, and paces off towards the battlements. The rest of the group isn’t long to follow suit now that they’re off duty and can relax. Cole drifts off towards the Herald’s Rest; Solas nods to him and heads for the Great Hall; Hawke stretches lazily and follows, presumably in search of Varric or a bath or both. The Seeker casts him a long look before she strides off in the direction of her quarters, a clear promise that this isn’t over.

Only Loghain stays, cold eyes sweeping over the crowd, and he feels more than sees Alistair shrink away. At long last he dismounts, letting his horse be led away by a stableboy, and walks towards the mass of soldiers. Up close his age shows clearly, face worn and hair greying; Thedas has new heroes now, and the former Teyrn is no longer one of them.

“Well met, Warden,” he says courteously, inclining his head. “I’m Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces.”

The other man doesn’t seem to be listening, however, gaze fixed on a point a metre or two behind him. Stomach churning, he turns to follow. Alistair stands there, shoulders hunched and eyes defiant, and in that moment he is the picture of his late father. 

“You,” says the Warden, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “What’s Maric’s bastard doing with the Inquisition?”

“With all due respect, _ser_ ,” Alistair almost spits, “it’s none of your business.” He stalks off to who knows where, curled in on himself like a predator, and it stings to see him so plainly laid bare.

“Allow me to apologise on his behalf,” Cullen hurries to add; they really can’t risk alienating the only Grey Warden who can grant them some kind of insight about Corypheus. “I’m under the impression he’s having some trouble leaving the past behind.”

“Understandable,” Loghain says, and sighs. “I fear my arrival here has reopened old wounds, Commander. I, however, am too old for grudges, and I should like to speak to Alistair before we leave. Still, he bears me no love, and I’m under no illusions about my chances.”

He wonders, then, about the regrets of Loghain Mac Tir. Is he consumed by thoughts of the Fifth Blight, of the civil war he started? Or is he at peace with the decisions he’s made, even knowing they weren’t easy or popular or necessarily right? Cullen meets his gaze squarely, searching for a clue in those icy depths. The Warden’s eyes are those of a man taken apart and reforged, and in that instant he thinks he might understand.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. 

*

Cullen is so busy sifting through the report Loghain gave at the war table that he almost misses the knock on his door. It comes again a little more hesitantly, and he jumps back to the present. There’s only one person it could be, and this is a conversation he needs to have, so he brings his full attention to bear.

“Come in,” he says, raising his voice.

Alistair shuffles inside, sweaty and red-faced and still armoured from training. The exertion lends him a strange glow, one which strips years off him and makes him seem every inch the Grey Warden he used to be. “You wanted to speak about something?”

When he’s this exhausted he can’t trust his memory to hold up, so he glances down at the list he wrote earlier: _Loghain, Calling, alcohol_. It’s a heavy program, and frankly he doesn’t want to broach any of those subjects, but unfortunately he doesn’t get a choice. The Commander of the Inquisition can’t afford for one of his subordinates to be functioning at less than his best, and Cullen Stanton Rutherford can’t afford for him to hold onto the past and miss a chance at catharsis. Whatever’s building between him and Alistair isn’t strong enough yet to be called friendship, but perhaps it’ll get there – no, he thinks, he’d like it to. The realisation throws him a little, since it’s so at odds with the unsociability he’s infamous for, but he pushes that aside for the moment and plunges into the breach.

“Yes,” he says, “I did. Loghain asked me to pass on a message: he wants to know if you’ll talk with him before he has to leave again.”

Alistair’s whole body tenses up like a bowstring, and something hard settles over his features. “Not happening,” he says sharply. “Never in a thousand years.”

“If you’d only consider–”

“No,” he cuts in. “Was that all you wanted, _ser_?”

Cullen feels a muscle jump in his forehead at the insubordination, but takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. “Actually, I was hoping you might tell me more about the Calling. I’m assuming you’ve also been experiencing it?”

“Why don’t you ask your friend Loghain?” he snaps. “After all, _he’s_ the Grey Warden here.”

He’s altogether too tired to deal with this, but there’s no way out of the argument except to pursue it to the bitter end. “I was just trying to express my concern, but of course you had to make it about your grudge. Would it really be so hard to give him the chance he wants?”

“Okay,” says Alistair, raking a hand through his hair, “it’s like this. You were a templar in Kirkwall when everything went pear-shaped, right?”

“Right,” he allows cautiously, wondering just when that became common knowledge. 

“Now imagine the apostate who did it was taken in by the Chantry. And then, since the templars were short-handed because of the very blast he’d caused, he became one of them and joined their ranks.”

“That’s impossible, though,” he says, not quite able to stop himself from picking holes in the analogy. “Mages aren’t allowed, for obvious reasons, and he certainly wouldn’t have been welcomed with open arms.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Alistair grinds out. “Kinloch and the Order were your home, weren’t they? I certainly remember you as a perfectly square peg in a perfectly square hole there.”

He’s certain he’s not imagining the judgmental tone to his voice; now things are pushing personal, and his temper flares up in an instant. “The Order certainly had more than its fair share of problems, but don’t pretend you’re morally superior because you never fit in.” 

“Not my fault I wasn’t enough of a _heartless yes-man_ to make a good templar.”

Cullen swallows hard, the action coming with some difficulty. The nausea he tamps down about the things he was witness to in Kirkwall – the things he was _party_ to – surges through him anew, chased by a blinding rage. 

“How dare you,” he says, biting down on the words. “How _fucking_ dare you.”

“Er,” Alistair says, suddenly looking uncharacteristically anxious, “Commander?”

“Get out,” he says lowly, and Alistair does.

But the slamming of the door does nothing to quell the anger or the fatigue; Cullen’s headache only builds, and in an instant he’s unsteady on his feet. He drops heavily into his chair, hands automatically finding his desk drawer and fumbling blindly. It takes far too long before it slides open and he can remove the carved wooden box concealed there. His fingers tremble as he undoes the clasps, laying its contents bare.

The blue of the lyrium is more beautiful every time he sees it, like the distant ocean on a summer’s day. He picks up the phial reverently, observing the delicate way the light plays over the liquid inside, and his blood sings at the thought. His head is pounding and his mouth is dry with anticipation, and Maker knows his life is already far too complicated. This, at least, could be simple.

But, as he’s learned in the most painful fashion possible, the easy thing is almost never the right one. It takes considerable effort for him to put the kit away, and he barely manages to slam the drawer closed on it before his second thoughts kick in. Drained, he collapses forward onto his desk, feeling like he’s just run fifty laps of Skyhold and breathing about as heavily. He’s not Meredith, and he’ll never allow himself to be.

On days like these, though, there’s a part of him which envies her.


End file.
